


I Give My Soul To You

by NotManTheLessButNatureMore



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Strike has a lot of chinks in his armour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 16:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17227628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotManTheLessButNatureMore/pseuds/NotManTheLessButNatureMore
Summary: Strike waits too long.





	I Give My Soul To You

“Cormoran?”

 

As the door was pushed open he regretted not locking it for the week. Ilsa’s head peered around the door and her eyes tracked quickly across the room, it was small enough to be taken in with one glance anyway, before finding him stood in front of the TV. He stood, balanced on one leg, paused in the action of emptying his full ash tray into a black sack. Ilsa moved inside, eyeing the room, as Nick followed behind. His bed was made, the red flowery duvet that Nick had teased him about was spread neatly across the bed. The bag he was holding looked half full and the only rubbish left was two beer bottles beside the chair in front of the TV and an empty crisp packet on the shelf above his bed. Two bowls and three mugs sat drying on the side of the sink. There was a half full clear tea caddy beside the kettle and a packet of Benson and Hodges still in its wrapping.

 

“Hi Corm.” Ilsa said.

 

“What are you doing here?” Strike put the rubbish bag on the floor and grabbed the rope above his head. He glanced down at his leg, he was wearing a shirt and jumper with only his boxers, it was more comfortable than having a trouser leg flapping around when he wasn’t planning on wearing his prosthetic.

 

“I’ll just...” He motioned to the pile of clothes on a shelf in the corner of the room.

 

“It alright, nothing we haven’t seen before.” Ilsa said and Nick gave her a quick sideways glance.

 

The three stood in silence as Strike offered no conversation and Ilsa and Nick felt like they’d intruded awkwardly.

 

“So...” Nick said as he looked between Ilsa and Strike with a smile. Ilsa managed not to roll her eyes.

 

“You haven’t been answering your phone.” Ilsa decided the direct approach was best.

 

“Yes I have.”

 

“Sorry, yes, you’ve replied to missed phone calls hours later with a text making some vague excuse. My mistake.” Ilsa said, failing to hide any sarcasm in her voice.

 

“I’ve been busy.” Strike replied defensively.

 

“Mm, it looks manic in here.” Ilsa said, looking theatrically around the room.

 

“I don’t bother you when you’re on holiday.”

 

“Is that what this is?” Nick moved over towards Strike’s bed to stand closer to him.

 

“Robin’s on holiday so why shouldn’t I be.” Robin’s name felt heavy in his mouth after almost a week of not saying it out loud.

 

“You usually don’t take a holiday unless it’s enforced.” Ilsa replied.

 

“Am I not allowed one? I haven’t had a holiday since I started the business.” Strike said bitterly. He wondered if the few days spent drinking in a travelogue after the wedding counted. His thoughts betrayed him when he picked up the rubbish bag again and beer bottles jostled and clinked against each other.

 

“Have you been drinking every night?” Nick asked, trying to mask the serious question with a certain amount of lightheartedness.

 

“I’m on holidays.”

 

“Alone?” Nick countered. Strike looked at him darkly and Nick knew he was crossing one of Strike’s defensive lines.

 

“You never drink alone Nick?”

 

“Not when I’m feeling depressed, no.”

 

“I’m not depressed.”

 

“Corm, Nick’s not saying-“ Ilsa countered as she moved closer to him.

 

“I’m cleaning my flat, which you’re interrupting, I’ve been reading, I’ve spoken to Shanker, there’s food in the fridge and yeah there’s alcohol too because I’m a grown man that’s fucking allowed it. And yes I’m here in my tiny flat because I can’t afford the French Riviera.” Strike was aware that his voice had taken on a defensive, and Ilsa would say desperate, edge.

 

Out loud his actions sounded better, they didn’t betray the fact that it had taken him a day to read 2 pages of his book and then at 4am he’d manically read through half the book of Catullus poems sitting on his bedside table. He was cleaning because he didn’t have anything else to do and he’d only talked to Shanker in order to cancel the job he was supposed to help him with.

 

“Ready meals don’t really count as food Corm.” Ilsa said from the kitchenette where she’d opened the presses and fridge without him noticing.

 

“I’ll learn to cook during my next holiday then.” He said sarcastically and immediately regretted it when Ilsa’s eyes dropped to the floor.

 

He was aware that he’d withdrawn completely this past week, and that his ‘holiday’ wouldn’t constitute a holiday in his eyes if it was anyone else. But he couldn’t tell them that he wanted it like this, he couldn’t tell them that he had worn plates of armour for so long and been hit by so much shrapnel that he just needed to be alone for a while. If he told them that they’d share a worried look and then chaperone his every move until... until she returned.

 

“Have you talked to Robin this week?” Nick asked. _And there it is_ , Strike thought.

 

_“_ No, she’s on holiday _.”_

 

“Not since...” Nick’s voice trailed off and Ilsa’s eyes darted to his.

 

“Since what?” She exclaimed.

 

Strike sighed. He’d be fine if it weren’t for other people, he thought with a feeling of frustration. Other people’s judgement, other people’s questioning eyes, other people’s expectations.

 

“Since nothing.” Strike said, making a point to look at Nick when he said it.

 

* * *

 

 

_“I can’t believe you’re actually gonna do it Oggy.”_

 

_“Shut up!” Strike whispered down the phone. He was standing in his office with the door half shut and had just heard Robin arrive._

 

_“Look, I’ve got to go.”_

 

_“When are you doing it? Are you doing it now?” Nick’s voice rushed down the line with excitement._

 

_“I’ve got to go.” Strike ended the call and walked into the main office._

* * *

 

 

“Since what Corm?” Ilsa persisted.

 

“Why are you here?” He said, with a malice in his voice that made Ilsa step back.

 

“Because we care about you and thought something was wrong.” Ilsa turned to look at Nick as she continued.

 

“Because Nick kept anxiously fidgeting each time he tried calling you and wouldn’t tell me why.”

 

“It’s not my place.” Nick replied quietly, looking at Strike.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Listen, next Saturday...” Strike’s voice trailed off as Robin looked up at him expectantly. His heart was hammering in his chest._

 

_“Yes.” She said, drawing the word out. Maybe this would be easy, Strike thought, maybe she was thinking the same thing._

 

_“I thought that maybe…” His voice trailed off and he felt like he was a schoolboy left alone in a room with a girl for the first time._

 

_“I know it’s the start of your holidays and…” Strike watched as she glanced down, he could no longer see her expression._

 

_“Actually I...” Robin paused and Strike’s brain rushed to fill in the missing words. Actually I wanted to ask if you’d like to spend the day together. Actually I booked a table at that Asian restaurant you like. Actually I want this too Cormoran._

 

_“Yeah?” He asked, his chest tight with a breath that was caught and wrapped tightly around his heart._

 

_“I have a date.”_

 

_“Oh.” It was all Strike’s brain could manage. His head began nodding of its own accord._

 

_She smiled at him, in that friendly way she smiles at new clients and the postman._

 

_“Right.” The room seemed still, silent, devoid of anything, even the traffic and construction work outside had seemed to know somehow and stopped._

 

_“If it’s the Stag case I can follow him that morning but I’d have to leave after lunch.”_

 

_“No it’s... nothing, never-mind, it’s the first day of your holidays I shouldn’t have...” He babbled and knew she could see it written across his face, knew there was no way of hiding it from her._

 

_They left it at that, she turned on her computer and pulled out the files she needed and he returned to his desk, a text from Nick was waiting for him._

 

_“Call/text me after and tell me how it went.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh Corm.” Ilsa said as she sat on the bed beside him.

 

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” _It’s not. I’m not._

 

 

* * *

 

_Friday had come and with dread Strike looked up as Robin entered his office._

 

_“I’m gonna head.” She said, smiling, with her coat thrown over her arm._

 

_“Yeah.”_

 

_She turned and paused, hovering in the threshold of the door._

 

_“The other day, when you…” She looked straight at him and Strike looked back down at his laptop._

 

_“What were you going to ask me?”_

 

_“What?” He frowned to give the illusion that it was some faint detail in the week, not worth remembering. Certainly not something to make the world fall down around your ears._

 

_“It’s just that… you finished up with the Stag case the night before, I saw the paperwork, and I was trying to figure out what else-“_

 

_“It was nothing. I just…” Strike stood and walked around the desk to stand in front of her._

 

_“There’s a curator’s talk about that French guy you mentioned-“_

 

_She looked at him and furrowed her brows, as if she didn’t understand why he remembered an artist she’d mentioned months ago or as if maybe she didn’t remember mentioning it herself. He felt like a lovestruck teenager trying to ask the girl in the year ahead of him to dance at the school disco._

 

_“-there’s an exhibition of his work on at the Tate Britain…” Her face fell slightly and her lips parted._

 

_“Not.. uh, I just thought that if you didn’t have any plans yet-“ Shut up you idiot! “It might be a nice way to start your holidays.”You sound pathetic!_

 

_“Together?”_

 

_“No! No, I’m not really interested in his stuff.” The first ‘no’ had come out too forceful and he barely managed to stop himself from cringing._

 

_“That was a really nice thought Cormoran.” She said. If felt like a knife to his chest. She walked closer to him and started to put her coat on._

 

_“Another time-“ She started._

 

_“No, it’s… It’s probably not even that great and you’d have to buy tickets too so…” He glanced briefly at the bottom drawer of his desk and hoped she didn’t notice._

 

_“Well, thanks anyway.” She said and then looked at him warmly, her cheeks blushed red and her hair catching the light from his desk lamp. She stepped forward and hugged him, arms wrapped around him with one hand resting on his back below his shoulder blade and the other against his spine. He found himself hating her in that moment, the way she made him feel like he was about to break in half._

 

_“See you in a week.” She said as she broke away and walked out of his office. He heard her grab her bag from the desk and open the office door. He heard her pause, the door creaking slightly, and waited for another farewell. Nothing came but the old familiar slam and click of the door. He walked slowly around his desk and sat back down._

 

_He’d left it too late. She was going on a date tomorrow. What if this was the one? What if she married him and all Strike could do was congratulate them because he wasn’t a bastard like Matthew? What if he couldn’t hate him because he treated her right and supported her and liked football and invited him to the pub? Would the rest of his life be spent listening to tales of romantic weekends away and taking deliveries of surprise flowers at the office? Would he spend the odd Friday night after work having a drink with them both in the pub, laughing along to jokes that only made sense to them and fielding questions about his life before retiring alone to his empty and dark attic flat?_

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ilsa and Nick looked at each other, each seeing the other’s sorrow for their friend. Ilsa couldn’t think of what to say. _I’m sorry Corm?_ What good would that do? _Don’t give up?_ What if he’d have to?

 

“Oggy mate.” Nick had joined them both on Strike’s bed. He put his hand on Strike’s shoulder and felt the slight flinch he made. Nick looked past Strike to his wife, as if to mouth ‘ _what do I say_?’. Strike’s head was dipped low but they had both seen how his face had drooped and his skin had paled as he told them what had happened, as if he’d given himself permission to remove the mask he had worn.

 

This was hard, Ilsa thought. Hard to watch because it was Robin. Even during the worst patches of his relationship with Charlotte, even when she left him shattered and Nick and Ilsa had to pick up the pieces, Ilsa always carried a generous amount of hope inside her. Hope that this would be the end of it, that he’d be free. Hope that he’d move on and find someone he deserved. Ilsa struggled to lighten her heart, to stop the clench she felt in her chest when she looked at him.

 

Strike straightened and looked around the flat.

 

“I’ve got to finish cleaning so…” He looked at both of them and the quiet ‘ _you can go now’_ settled between them.

 

“Why don’t you come over to ours? We can get a Chinese, yeah? I’ve got a huge tub of ice cream to get through and Nick’s no help, he hates mint.” Ilsa said with a smile.

 

“It’s alright Ilsa, I’d rather-“

 

“We don’t have to talk about it. We can talk about my new promotion or mum’s new book club, which she’s very excited about by the way, or the weather or football or-“

 

“-Ilsa.”

 

“-or you can try teaching Nick some Pashto again.”

 

Strike looked at her and took a deep breath. His face didn’t lighten but something did change.

 

“Just give me a few hours. I’ll come ‘round tonight.” Strike said.

 

“Promise?” Ilsa asked and bumped her shoulder against his.

 

“Promise.”

 

Nick and Ilsa stood, glancing back at him as they shuffled towards the door.

 

“She’ll be back here with a Chinese and a DVD of Bridget Jones just to torture you if you don’t come over, you know.” Nick said.

 

“I know. I’ll be there.” Strike said with a faint smile.

 

Strike gave Nick and Ilsa a small wave from where he sat as they left. He looked around the room and back to the rubbish bag on the floor. He stood and grabbed the overhead rope to hop his way back over to the TV.

 

“You should really lock this you know.” Ilsa’s head popped back around the door, nearly giving him a heart attack.

 

“Ilsa!” Nick’s voice called from halfway down the attic stairs.

 

“See you tonight Corm.”

 

“See you tonight.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So that wasn't the happiest of moments in the journey of Cormoran x Robin, although I do think something like it is bound to happen as JKR probably isn't going to make them into a happy couple by the end of the next book. On the plus side I imagine Ilsa instantly calling Robin and asking what the heck is going on. :)
> 
> Also, after some research I thiiink it's Pashto that Strike speaks to the waiter in the restaurant in the Cuckoo's Calling TV show. Sounds like 'tashakor' to me, which is Pashto rather than Dari and they're the two main languages spoken in Afghanistan. I don't remember it being mentioned in the books but if someone else does they can correct me. :) 
> 
> I also want to say thank you for the kudos and comments on my last fic, 'Living', especially to Jul and Rosenoble9 who shared their losses. x


End file.
